


Where Dreams Come To Die

by Bawgdan



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Drama, F/M, Madness, One-Sided Attraction, Romance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-02 20:30:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10952166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bawgdan/pseuds/Bawgdan
Summary: It took her 89 nights to fall out of love...90 days for him to destroy his kingdom.“She had never entirely let go of the notion that if she reached far enough with her thoughts she might find someone waiting, that if two people were to cast their thoughts outward at the same moment they might somehow meet in the middle.” ~ Emily St. John Mandel





	1. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will just be a series of drabbles not in any particular order. Most of them will take place after ACOTAR but before ACOMAF. Despite Tamlin being trash, I really would've liked more insight on him has a character. I felt like there were moments and pieces that were missing because overall his character felt inconsistent after ACOTAR or little was explained about him. SO this is my attempt to try that.

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Tamlin has always wondered who he would be in the absence of color. His home swallows whatever pours through the smashed windows. Sunlight doesn't reach the ceiling-he has misted the walls in ugly contempt. The shadows are so thick that Spring itself feels like centuries he has never asked for. 

But when the night howls into the broken design of his pride, it sticks like poison. His heart has become too large for his chest yet too ugly to rip out. Where his muscles expand, when his throat twists itself in knots, all of those years that have held him together pop like taut strings. 

Spring has been a lie and what he's made of is closer to the wicked follies of nightfall. An infinite amount of stars bursting into black holes. Constellations that led to nowhere. 

But he's aware. More so than the credit he's been given. As he strides into the wasteland of his madness, he realizes that the depth of his heartbreak ended with the fantasy of supping from bell flowers- under twinkling shafts of daylight. 

He should be happy, but he is not. He doesn't think he ever will be. 

Wrung of whatever sentiments he has entertained, Tamlin finds his throne. Covered in dust that may have been glitter at a time. There is the crippling realization that maybe his insanity had been believing in the various colors of the sky. 

No one had told him that love would steal the color of his blood. 

No one had told him that he never really needed it. 

He looks around at all of what he has squandered and comes to the conclusion that his soul has always been bleak. 

The wreckage holds nothing but taunting swirls of darkness and the sunlight that barely reaches his boots is just as dim as his swelling cynicism. 

Spring has been a lie and he's not sure if he will be content with change choking the last drop of who he's pretended to be for so long. 


	2. II

"A message in a bottle washes up on the shore. Do you crack it open and read it or throw it back into the ocean?" Lucien sinks into the lounging chair. His limbs spill like a broken bottle of wine.

Tamlin wrinkles his nose at his companion's unusual casualness. He scans Lucien's lethargy reticently and critical.

"Throw it back into the ocean." Tamlin answers promptly, propping an elbow on the arm of his chair.

"So you wouldn't be the least bit curious?"Lucien's laugh is light but the room's temperature rises. His magic seeps from him– it's so infectious that Tamlin has to suppress his own amusement.

"When have I ever been the nosy sort, Lucien?"

"Don't think of it as being nosy. Consider it adventurous." Dragging the heel of his beaten boots against the marble floor, Lucien sits up in his seat. Tamlin suddenly defines Lucien's peculiar demeanor. It had been so long that he had failed to recognize joy. Relief and the anxiety that comes with infinite freedom. As Tamlin fully takes in Lucien's bright face, his memories sing to him. He'd forgotten the sharpness of his friend's nose. The single dimple in his cheek when he smiles.

Tamlin doesn't smile back at him. He features pale with shame.

"Adventurous you say?" Centuries of unhappiness had dulled him. Comfort feels like a cruel joke.

"Adventurous." Lucien echoes.

"What possessed such a thought? You've never been a good daydreamer." Tamlin turns his wrist, opening his hand. Thin air crackles like static until a abundance of stars fill up his palm. Forging a golden cup filled with dark liquid.

"Feyre asked me this morning during breakfast," Lucien says dreamily. One eye closed and the other a wide window forever open.

Tamlin grimaces. It was his fifth time missing breakfast and he realizes he hasn't properly spoken to Feyre all day.

"What would she do?" Tamlin feels like he should already know the answer.

"Break the bottle open and read it."

"Feyre can't read."

"Yes, _but_ she's adventurous."

The sunset bleeds through the tall windows, enhancing the glittery tendrils of contentment that lift from Lucien. Tamlin's study is drenched in orange and red– supernal in how it reflects autumn. All traces of spring are darkened by shadows of the day's end.

"She is adventurous." And something in him knows that the ceiling won't be enough to contain her.


	3. III

Wanting has been detrimental to his health. He doesn't know how to ask– he just takes. Tamlin takes large doses of his ego trip. Now that Feyre doesn't starve, the way he is disappoints her.  Tamlin **_wants wants wants_** , takes and breaks. She's just now realizing he's unaware of the broken system of obtaining his needs and desires.

There's enough space between her ribs and bodice to stuff with the bread she can't bring herself to eat. As she watches Tamlin slice through his dinner, she feels ungrateful. Only churlish girls refuse to eat in a world riddled with famine.

 _But_ – she's not in that world anymore. This food is only as real as Tamlin makes it. Tangible only in how potent their magic is. There isn't any pride in the hunt– no reward in sawing through the thick tendrils of gristle and muscle.

Feyre allows her spoon to fall from the table and Tamlin stops chewing. He's now peering at her through the tall candelabra.

He's so beautiful and the essential stardust of their meal is unfathomably exquisite but she doesn't want any of it. She wants to peel off her skin and throw her ghost into the winds of nowhere in particular.

"Something is on your mind?" Tamlin asks out of courtesy; not out of _knowing_. And it's strange that his voice conjures up a deep shame inside of her.

"Nothing is on my mind." By nothing she means the dark nature of her future. She wants to die but not enough to kill herself.

"You're a terrible liar." He smiles and her dread crawls up into her throat.

"And you're blissfully ignorant." Feyre snorts, resolving to leave her spoon on the floor. She sinks into her chair. Her sleeves don't hug her arms. "I'm fine."


End file.
